


Another Round?

by Innerspace



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drinking & Talking, Drunk Sherlock, Established Relationship, Fluff, Humor, Love Confessions, M/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-17
Updated: 2013-02-17
Packaged: 2017-11-29 14:27:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/688011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Innerspace/pseuds/Innerspace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At John's insistence, Sherlock agrees to attempt a friendly night of social drinking with Molly.  </p><p>Alcohol is an excellent social lubricant.  But as always, one can have too much of a good thing.</p><p>Includes extreme errors in judgement, such as:  Sherlock mistaking John for a blanket, Molly mistaking Sherlock for her new "gay boyfriend", and John mistaking Sherlock for someone who will be discreet about their sex life after half a dozen glasses of brandy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Another Round?

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [ExplosionLimit](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ExplosionLimit), who gave me the concept for this story, and then patiently stuck with me as I wrote it, encouraging, redirecting, scolding, advising, and cheerleading as necessary in order to keep me going in spite of myself. I could not have written this without her input and support!

Sherlock is draped bonelessly across the sofa, his left arm dangling off the side, his right thrown across his face, when John returns to their flat.  A cold draft follows him into the room, and there is a dusting of snow on his shoulders and sandy hair.  The dim gray sunlight sneaking in through the windows is the only light in the room, but John can tell Sherlock’s awake even before his voice comes sulky and muffled from beneath his arm.  “I can’t find my scarf.”

John sighs inwardly.  The scarf in question is currently wrapped around John’s neck.  “I told you I was taking it, remember?  Couldn’t find mine and I was running late.”  He closes the door behind him, starts turning on lights against the dreary winter afternoon.

Still with his arm covering his face, dramatically posed, Sherlock mumbles, “Running late?  For what?”

“Lunch.  With Molly.”  Slight exasperation in his voice, tempered with understanding.  “I did tell you.”  Had Sherlock even noticed he had been gone?  It’s been a few months since Sherlock’s return from the grave, and John is still constantly surprised by how little has changed.

“Hmm.”  A noncommittal grunt.

Taking off his coat and gloves, John asks, “What did you need your scarf for, anyway?  You weren’t planning to head out in this.”  The snow was light, but the wind had been bitter, and John is glad to be back indoors.

“I was cold.”  Finally Sherlock shifts his right arm slightly:  his eyes are now regarding John petulantly over the top of his forearm.

“And you couldn’t have just turned on the radiator?” John sighs, but walks over to the sofa, unwrapping the scarf from around his own neck, reaching down to offer it, meeting Sherlock’s gaze.  “Here.  I’ll get you a blanket, too.”  Before John can take a step back, Sherlock has stretched up, grabbed John’s shirtfront, and pulled, upsetting his balance and tumbling him onto the sofa, atop Sherlock’s sprawled form. 

“No thanks, you’ll do.”  Sherlock’s arms wrap around his back as John does his best to settle himself comfortably against him on the too-small piece of furniture.  The scarf has fallen to the floor, but neither of them bothers to retrieve it.  Instead, Sherlock presses his face into John’s damp hair, inhaling him, and John shifts to tilt his face upwards.  Their lips slide together, sharing hot, uneven breaths, tasting and teasing.  There’s no rush, now: time stretches invitingly ahead of them: the evening, the week, the years…

It’s been months since Sherlock’s return, and John still finds himself constantly surprised by how much has changed.

But John had wanted to ask Sherlock something, and he was now in danger of becoming thoroughly distracted by the wandering mouth, eager hands and unashamedly _urgent_ body of his flatmate beneath him.  John pulls back a bit, his hair in a decidedly more disheveled state than it had been upon entering the flat, his lips decidedly redder.  “Sherlock,” he begins, but the word is left to hang on its own as the man in question reaches up to trail his mouth, open, along John’s neck up to his jawbone, and then bites down.  Shuddering, John barely manages to uncross his eyes and focus on the subject he’s trying to broach.  “Sherlock, I wanted to mention…” a shift of the long lanky limbs on the sofa under him, and a press of heat and friction just where John needs it is almost too much.  Staring down at Sherlock’s face, at the delicate flush of pink across his cheekbones, the blue-grey rings of his irises overshadowed by yawning pupils, John stifles a groan.  How is it that even after months of daily intimacy, familiarity, he’s still so susceptible to the spell of Sherlock’s desire, the weight of his need adding to John’s own?

“God,” Sherlock groans, meeting his gaze, “You know I just want to – to spread you open… dissect you…”

John feels his face go from warm to hot, burning, feels his resolve to have a serious discussion slipping away altogether.  Of all the aspects of Sherlock that arouse John (have always aroused him), his mind is at the top of the list.  He’s always said the most amazing, incredible things—sometimes incredibly _insensitive,_ of course, but still.  Incredible.

Wait, _insensitive,_ John repeats mentally, focusing on that connection, salvaging his original train of thought as long fingers attempt to insinuate themselves between the waistband of his jeans and his skin.  Closing his eyes against the distractions of Sherlock’s body spread out beneath him, his face always uncharacteristically (wonderfully) expressive in such situations, John pulls back. Sherlock’s right hand pulls on John’s belt loop; when that does not have the desired effect, Sherlock huffs out, “John?”  It’s an inquiry, a demand, and a complaint.  His eyes, when John finally feels safe enough to confront them, are sulky again, expectant but impatient.

“I wanted to mention something, before,” John says, watching the face beneath him for the defiance and stubbornness that were sure to make an appearance.  “And I want you to promise me something, too.”

“Oh, god, can’t it _wait?”_ Sherlock moans, flopping his head back down to the sofa, eyes shut in frustration, his hips angling up in search of friction.  However, John shifts his weight, staying out of easy reach.

If he was perfectly honest with himself, John could admit to being a little bit pleased with Sherlock’s reaction to the enforced break in their make-out session.  Months ago, John could never have imagined this seemingly cold, super-rational, aloof young man lying beneath him, protesting and writhing in distress at the sudden removal of John’s body from his own.  It is still surprising how intense Sherlock can be when it comes to sexual desire and denial.

John is confident enough to be just a bit cheeky.  “Oh, sure, I can wait here all night.”  He crosses his arms and settles himself on top of Sherlock’s legs, deliberately avoiding the obvious bulge in his trousers.

Sherlock knows that expression on John’s face.  He’s catalogued it, ages ago, under “impossibly stubborn and immovable.”  Sighing, and trying not to think about the discomfort his trousers are currently causing, he deigns to respond.  “Well, then?”

He pauses for a moment, unsure how to start.  “Molly asked about you today.”

“Oh, did she?  How novel.”

“Shut up.”  John’s words are harsh, but his tone lacks venom, and Sherlock merely pouts as he continues.  “She asked about you several times throughout the meal.  She didn’t even seem to know what you’d been through since… since the fall.”  Always difficult to think about that day, those moments stretching into an eternity… John hastens on.  “Did you ever thank her?  Let her know you appreciated all the trouble she went through, helping you to disappear?”

Tellingly, Sherlock is now avoiding his gaze.  “Well, I should have thought my gratitude was apparent.  She’s a smart girl, in spite of her shortcomings in the social arena.”  (John barely suppresses a snicker at the irony).  Still focusing on a point somewhere above John’s left shoulder, Sherlock concludes, “She doesn’t need to have these things spelled out for her, I imagine.”

“Sherlock, that’s not the point.”  It’s a gentle reprimand, John understands his friend well enough not to begrudge him his sometimes limited imagination when it comes to things like human emotions, the needs of others.

“Well, what _is_ the point?”  Sherlock shifts so he’s lying back with his arms folded across his chest.  “Enlighten me.”  He seems to have reluctantly accepted that a delay to the resumption of their highly enjoyable activities is now inevitable, and is settling in to wait it out.

There is another pause as John considers his words.  “When—when you were,” he starts, then stops.  “I mean, when I thought you were…”  He stops again.  He simply can’t put the words together yet.  It’s been months, but it’s still too fresh; they’ve only ever skirted around the issue of the fall, or more particularly John’s reaction to it, and John somewhat doubts whether he’ll ever be able to recount, fully, the nightmare he had lived through.  Sherlock’s only had tidbits, hints, the tiny pieces John has doled out in intervals, and he’s done his best to file them away and fill in the gaps himself, deducing and divining some of the more horrible truths so that John won’t have to relive them in the telling.  Now, when John stops in mid-sentence and turns his eyes to Sherlock’s face, the impenetrable expression that Sherlock had been wearing softens marginally, and he gives a small nod.

John’s shoulders relax slightly, and he finally continues.  “At that time, I mean—Molly was there for me.  She was there through the… through the worst of it.”  He is doing his best to meet Sherlock’s eyes, hoping to enforce the point he’s trying to make, but it’s difficult to do while attempting to hold such black memories in check.  “Mrs. Hudson was sweet, of course:  plates of biscuits, asking if I needed anything from the store.  But she couldn’t… there were things I couldn’t tell her.

“Molly—Molly listened to everything, without judgment.  Told me I wasn’t crazy, even when I was sure that I must be.  I probably was, for a while.  And, maybe, if she hadn’t been there…” He laughs a little, shaking his head abruptly.  _Trying to clear it of the memories?_ Sherlock wonders.  When it becomes clear that John is not about to finish his thought, Sherlock attempts to do it for him, running through all the likely conclusions to the sentence through his head.  None of them are acceptable.

John watches the thoughts flickering across Sherlock’s face, watches as his expression resolves into something like disbelief.  (How close had he come to losing John, and not even known it?)  His right hand slides over to find John’s, which has been resting on his knee, then grasps it, threading his fingers through John’s and holding tightly.  “What do you want, John?” he asks, quietly.

“Just be kind to her, Sherlock.  Do something nice, something friendly.  She knows we’re together now, she’s not going to make advances on you.”  John’s face is clearing, the darkness passing from his features, and he finds himself rubbing his thumb along Sherlock’s hand where it is twined with his.

“I’m not sure I know how to do that,” Sherlock responds, his eyebrows pulling together as he looks down at their fingers.  “Being… nice.”

John figures that for Sherlock to admit to not knowing how to do something, he must be genuinely afraid.  He finds that he feels more compassion than frustration toward his friend at the realization.  “She knows you too, Sherlock.  She’ll know you’re making an effort.”  As Sherlock considers John’s words, John raises their hands to his mouth, kisses the backs of Sherlock’s knuckles gently, one by one.  “She cares about you, really cares.  I think it would mean a lot to her.”  John’s hand has moved from Sherlock’s fingers to his delicate, pale wrist, which he brings up to his lips, then kisses more deliberately, open-mouthed.  He watches as Sherlock’s eyebrows pull apart, his concerned expression fading as his own mouth falls open slightly, his breath catching as John scrapes his teeth lightly along the sensitive skin.

“Okay,” Sherlock manages shakily, blood beginning to rush away from his brain again.  John has resumed his former position, straddling Sherlock’s hips.  Seeing the desire rekindling in Sherlock’s eyes, John takes both wrists in one hand and deliberately pins them above Sherlock’s head, leaning down as much as he can considering the awkward way the sofa is limiting their positions.  “Okay,” Sherlock repeats, his voice lowering, becoming husky, as John presses him down into the furniture at their points of contact: hands, hips… “I’ll do it, for you.  Because you want it.”  He gasps and his eyes flutter closed for a moment as John rolls his hips.  “Because I want what you want.”  The moan that slides out of Sherlock’s mouth as John leans down and kisses him insistently, thoroughly, is absolutely indecent.

“Good,” John replies, just before he pulls back again, and Sherlock growls in frustration.  But then John takes Sherlock by the hand and pulls him to his feet as he stands.  “Good, because I also want to get off this bloody cramped sofa and move to your bed.” 

“Agreed.”

And, they find, they are both properly satisfied with the outcome of that particular decision.

\----

“Not really sure if I should have these,” Molly remarks, as the waiter sets down a plate of chips in front of her.  The pub’s menu is typically limited, and she wants something to soak up the alcohol so as not to turn into a complete fool during her first social interaction with Sherlock in—well, maybe ever, depending how one defines such things.

Sherlock sniffs in a slightly derisive fashion.  “If you’re wondering whether you’ve been gaining weight and are in danger of being unable to wear the majority of your wardrobe, then I hardly think the difference caused by a single plate of chips will be a deciding factor.”  Molly relaxes slightly, and allows herself a small smile.  She begins to consider if, perhaps, she has been worrying needlessly.  Perhaps he is easier to tolerate than she remembers.  Then, of course, he continues talking.  “However, if you then calculate in the one-point-five cosmopolitans you’ve consumed thus far, in addition to the quantity of further alcoholic beverages you plan to imbibe over the course of the night—then, all things considered, I would advise against them.”

Her smile stiffens.  So much for that short-lived delusion.  She considers for a moment simply leaving in a huff, but realizes that it would have little effect on Sherlock, probably would only cause him a second’s irritation.  Instead, meeting his gaze, she picks up a chip without looking at the plate and eats it in two bites.

Sherlock recognizes the sudden change in her body language, and hears John’s voice in his head saying _bit not good._  He considers and rejects making a remark about people asking for his advice and then not taking it (particularly after he realizes that she had _not_ , in fact, expressly asked for it), then, fearing that he may have already ruined the evening in the first five minutes (thereby disappointing John), he finally decides on a previously reliable tactic.  “That’s a lovely blouse you’re wearing, Molly.  The color suits you.”

Molly almost rolls her eyes—had he always been this transparent?—but ultimately she recognizes it as the closest thing she can expect by way of apology.  Which naturally she accepts.  “Another round?”

\----

“So, um, seen any good films lately?”

“No.”

“How about theater?  I hear they’re doing a revival of _Cabaret_ in the West End.”

“Not really my area.”

“Which, _Cabaret_ or theater?”

“Both.  All of it.  Predictable, sentimental, garish.”

“I happen to really like _Cabaret_.”

“Doesn’t surprise me.”

“…would you be so kind as to buy the next round, Sherlock?”

“But you still have half your… oh.”

“Whoo.  That might have been a bit _too_ fast.”

“Possibly.”

“Remember to get yourself another brandy while you’re up.”

“I haven’t finished this one.”

“Finish it now then.  It’ll save time.”

“I don’t--”

“Just drink it.”

\----

“Maybe… maybe we could go shopping sometime.”

“Shopping?  But John does all our shopping.”

“No, I mean clothes shopping.”

“I don’t particularly need new clothes right now, Molly.”

“Well, I thought it might be fun.  You wouldn’t have to buy anything.  You could sort of help me pick things out, watch me try them on, give me advice.”

“If you like I can offer you some advice now, both on your current wardrobe and any potential additions you may be thinking of making to it.”

“Really?”

“I don’t see why not.  As a matter of fact, I’ve noticed several articles of clothing which you wear from time to time that really are less than flattering.”

“Um… never mind, actually, that’s okay.”

“I could write a list for you.”

“Forget about it, Sherlock.”

“I’ll send a text later.  My keypad seems to be malfunctioning at the moment.”

“No more talking about my fashion sense.”

“Just as well.  Actually, I find so-called “fashion” in general to be incredibly tedious.  I wish I could delete the entire subject, but unfortunately it has proven useful time and again in solving cases.  You see, it changes every few years based on the whims of the masses, influenced (as ever) by advertising and celebrities…”

“Sherlock, I need another drink.”

\----

 “I’m so glad we’re finally doing this!” gushes Molly, her cheeks bright pink and eyes shining with alcohol and sincerity.  “I don’t know why I was so nervous before.  Here we are, just catching up, having drinks, talking about our lives!”

It strikes Sherlock that in fact it has primarily been _Molly_ talking about _her_ life, but he bites back the thought because this has not been entirely her fault.  Over the course of the past hour or so, Sherlock has been formulating and testing the hypothesis that the safest and surest way to elicit favorable reactions from Molly—and thus, succeed in this game of friendly conversation—is to speak as little as possible.  In keeping with his current plan, Sherlock merely smiles in answer to Molly’s declarations, though it is a slightly wavering and unconvincing smile.

“I can’t believe I’ve never noticed what a good listener you are!” Molly smiles back, too intoxicated and happy to notice the awkwardness of his expression.  “Did I tell you about the time I walked in on my flatmate’s orgy?”

Suddenly, Sherlock finds himself wishing he had not been quite so successful at pretending to be a good listener.

Molly is still smiling, which seems to be in direct contradiction with the story she is telling.  “Okay, so it was a late night at Bart’s.”  She takes a long drink from her conical glass.  Sherlock mentally records and is slightly unnerved by the volume of alcohol (in relation to body mass) she has just consumed.  “And I was sooo tired.  The lift was broken, as usual, so I had to take the stairs.  And after four flights I _finally_ reached my flat.  It must have been about half past two.  I started to unlock the door, and all at once I felt someone trying to hold it shut against me!”

In spite of himself, Sherlock finds his interest piqued.  It makes it that much easier to _act_ interested as Molly continues.  “After pushing at the door for a few seconds, I realize what’s happening.  Things are suddenly very weird, you know?  So I stop pushing at the door.  I’m just standing there looking at the door to my own flat.  I say, ‘Hello?’ and finally Sophie—my flatmate—answers me back.  ‘Hello? Molly?’ she says.  And I still don’t understand why she chose to open the door at this point, but she did; just a few inches, mind you, but enough that I could see--” Molly starts snickering, covering her face with her hand to compose herself, “that she’s completely _naked_ , except for the cushion from our sofa she’s holding in front of her.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows rise slightly, but he finds that there are no words at his immediate disposal with which he can express himself.  It’s an unfamiliar and unsettling sensation, and he quickly finishes his current brandy, signaling for another one to a passing waiter.

“As if that isn’t awkward enough, I can see a bit behind her, and there are maybe six other people in the sitting room, lounging on the carpet!  Pretty sure they were all naked, I tried not to look too closely.  Especially since I _recognized_ a few faces…” Molly pauses again, looks at Sherlock.  He feels like he’s been called to the head of the class.  What is the appropriate reaction here?

“I’m sure that must have been… bizzare.”

“Naturally!  About half of them were women, but among the men, I was fairly sure one of them was an ex-boyfriend of mine from uni…”  She takes a breath to finish her drink, catches the arm of the waiter bringing Sherlock’s brandy to interject, “Hi, another please?” and hands the man her empty martini glass while he raises a subtle eyebrow at her familiarity, but nonetheless takes the dirty glass away.  “So I have a moment where I’m looking past my naked flatmate, around my sitting room filled with naked strangers and acquaintances, before Sophie finally says, ‘Molly, can you go back out for maybe, I don’t know, another two hours?’”

This time Sherlock doesn’t need any prompts from Molly: the interjection bursts from his (slightly numb and tingly) lips before he can stop himself.  “Two _hours_?  Was she serious?  She must have had no concept of the duration of human sexual intercourse.”

Molly actually pauses then to look at Sherlock, slightly askance, as if she senses that something is off about the conversation but through the haze of alcohol, can’t quite put her finger on it.  “Um, I’m not really sure myself, though I think I read somewhere that on average it lasts about five to seven minutes?”

Sherlock nods, slowly.  He feels like somewhere in the back of his head he should have a precise figure for this, but somehow he has misplaced it.  Only temporarily of course, but that is unusual enough.  Has it really been so long since his last encounter with alcohol that he has forgotten his limit?

“Anyway, I couldn’t very well stand there staring at her, and I didn’t know _what_ to say, so I just… sort of turned around and headed back down… the stairs…” Molly is giggling every time she stops for a breath.  “Um, needless to say, I didn’t go back to my flat that night.”

A fresh drink arrives for Molly, and Sherlock regards it doubtfully.  Molly herself doesn’t notice the drink right away. Sherlock gets the impression that she’s waiting for some kind of response from him again.  After all, she has just shared this strange and—probably—personal story with him.  For what purpose, to what end?  Judging by her intermittent giggles, she finds it amusing, and Sherlock must admit that it managed to surprise him, which is close enough to being entertained that he supposes Molly deserves some recognition for the accomplishment.  He takes a moment to pry his mind away from the various other conversations of nearby tables that he has been allowing to run through his subconscious, and pauses the examination of one of the bartenders across the room who seems far too intoxicated herself to be mixing acceptable beverages—and focuses his full attention on Molly, gives her a smile and a small laugh.  “Well, that certainly was a strange anecdote.  And told with quite the storyteller’s flair.”

Molly can’t help being affected by his charm and flattery, so rarely turned on for anyone, and she tries to hide her blush by picking up her drink and tilting her head away from him.  “Thank—thank you, that’s very kind,” she finally replies after allowing herself a moment for composure.  She wonders how many people have ever used the word “kind” in relation to this brilliant yet strangely oblivious man, and meant it.  She imagines it to be an extremely short list.  “But Sherlock, I’ve been talking all night, haven’t I?  How rude, I’m sorry.  Please tell me how you’ve been.”

“Fine, thank you for asking,” Sherlock responds.  He’s learned at least the basic pleasantries and the appropriate responses to them, in large part due to Mycroft, though Sherlock considers the imparting of this information a matter for placing blame rather than gratitude.  In either case, the remark does not seem to have done the trick, as Molly is still looking at him expectantly.

There’s that unpleasant sensation of being put on the spot again, followed by the beginnings of an unusually long pause in the conversation at the table.  Sherlock has noticed that such protracted periods of silence in a social interaction tend to make others uncomfortable and anxious.  However, he has also observed that John rarely responds negatively to such lapses in their own conversation, a tendency for which he is thankful but still finds slightly puzzling.  “Um, yes.  Quite well, thank you.”  He wonders if repeating his original response with a slight variation might be enough to push their conversation back on track.  He’s replacing his empty glass on the table again before he consciously realizes he’s even picked it up to drink.

“Hmm,” Molly finally says, and she seems to also be slightly at a loss for words.  Sherlock does some quick calculating in his head.  A social exchange, however imprecise the science behind it, can still be considered an exchange, essentially.  Perhaps Molly is feeling cheated somehow in this trade?  She has certainly given more information than has Sherlock.  If he were to picture a scale on the table before them, it would be wildly imbalanced in his favor.  But what can he say to even things out? 

“I’ve never participated in an orgy,” Sherlock confesses.

Molly’s eyebrows go halfway up her forehead, and she laughs.  “Okay, that doesn’t surprise me.”  She pauses for a second, then hastily adds, “Neither have I, in case that wasn’t clear.”

“Actually, I hadn’t had anything that could really be considered sex, with anyone who could really be considered a sexual partner, until recently.  Until, um, John.”

What is going on?  Is Sherlock actually opening up to her?  Molly considers for a second that he might have ulterior motives, but then decides she doesn’t particularly care.  She’s just happy that he’s apparently capable of some sort of honest conversation.  Even if it has taken him half a dozen glasses of brandy to get here.  “Okay,” she says simply.  She doesn’t want to say the wrong thing right now and possibly startle him out of the moment.

“He’s—well really he’s quite amazing.”

“Sorry, um, do you mean in bed?”  Molly’s not sure suddenly whether she wants an answer to her question or not.

“Well—in many ways.  But yes, I was specifically referring to sex.  His stamina is extraordinary, and from what I know of male anatomy, his size is also well above the average.”

There is no doubt in Molly’s mind as to what part of John’s anatomy Sherlock is discussing.  And the slightly self-satisfied air with which he’s imparting this information makes it seem somehow even more inappropriate than it would have sounded in his usual tone of bored detachment.

“Stamina and size are really just the basics, though, aren’t they?” Sherlock continues, now warming to his subject.  “If that was all that mattered, then, well, there are plenty of sex toys that are far larger than the real thing, and they can perform indefinitely without tiring.  I understand that, if one is willing to invest the money, there are even machines that can do the work for you.”

“Ah, well, I believe that’s right, yes,” Molly stammers.  She considers that this may be the most awkward conversation she has ever had, with anyone, including the brief discussion she had been forced to have with Sophie the day after the orgy, in which she'd had to explain, as if to a child, the impropriety of having or allowing sex in the common areas of their flat.

“With people, living people, there are so many other factors.  Unpredictable.  Obviously, I’d known that John and I work well as a team, on cases.  Obv--iously,” Sherlock repeats, feeling the word as slightly foreign and uncooperative in his mouth.  “However, I’d expected there to be a constant string of problems when our relationship became sexual.”

“But there… weren’t?”

Sherlock’s face is just about as animated as Molly has ever seen it, and it’s a little overwhelming, a little alarming.  “It was fascinating!  The way things just sort of… clicked.  When we first kissed.  The unexpected chemical rush of feeling his lips against mine, the sudden shock of sensation—so surprising, even though I was the one who leaned down to kiss him.  The way everything suddenly slid into focus, knife-sharp.”

“Um.  Had you ever kissed anyone before?”

“Inconsequential.  This was the first kiss that made an… impression.”

“How did—how did he react?”  She feels a bit guilty for encouraging him, but somehow she can’t help herself.

Sherlock lets his memory travel back, reliving the moments (so familiar from his frequent revisiting of them) as he relates them to Molly.  “John was in the middle of telling me off about something.  As he does.  We were standing in the kitchen.  Possibly it was to do with an item I left in the fridge or on our kitchen table, he’s increbid—increbid— _incredibly_ picky.  About such things.  So, he was glaring up at me, shouting, scolding.  Not even a foot away from my face.  And I felt—an urge, this… wave of _need_ , to, to close that gap…  Anyway, he stopped talking.  Didn’t move.  Made this little strangled noise in his throat.”  Sherlock’s expression is relaxed, far-away, unfocused.  “I remember his eyes… first, seeing the whites around them, then eyelids lowering… then closed.  He leaned in toward me, pulled me against him.  I felt his pulse accelerating, felt it through the skin on his throat, with my fingers, then my mouth…”

Molly’s own throat feels a bit dry.  She clears it.  “Ah, so that was your first kiss, then.  Sounds… nice.”

“Nice?” Sherlock’s eyebrows rise up into his fringe.  “That word is… entirely.  In—inadequate.  _More_ than nice.”  He pauses.  To his annoyance, his words seem to be once again resisting falling into line under his direction.  “Perhaps… intense?”  A questioning tone has snuck into his voice, causing further annoyance.

“Um.  That—sounds about right.”

Sherlock turns his attention away from the shortcomings of language back to Molly, attempting to gauge her reaction to his contribution to the conversation.  However, it is somewhat difficult to focus properly, and she doesn’t say anything further.  Possibly, Sherlock thinks, he has not shared enough yet.

“Of course, we’ve done far more than just kissing.”  His fingers have started stroking the side of his empty glass, unconsciously.  “God, when we touched… that first time, skin to skin…” he closes his eyes, replaying it on the screen inside his mind.  “His hands on my chest, my stomach.  His _heat_ , the _life_ in him.  So—so _real_.”

He pauses another moment, reflecting on his word choice.  So _real?_   Did he actually just say that?  He is both speaking and listening to himself speak, two different Sherlocks, and the one is beginning to have trouble understanding the other.  Since the detached bit of himself seems to have nothing to contribute, however, he decides to ignore it.

“When he looks at me… the _way_ he looks at me… it grounds me.  Makes me feel more, more _everything,_ more present in my skin.  As if he has the power to make me more real.  He looks at my body as if it's more than just transport, not just a shell, and I… respond to it.  My body—reacts.  I hadn’t thought it possible to feel so much, such exquisite heightened perception, such heat and arousal, simply from a prolonged look.  It’s as if he has direct control over every nerve ending in my body.

“The power he has over me.  He pulls me out of my head and into the moment.  Breaks me down to the physical—as close to purely physical as I get… it’s a bit frightening, actually.”  He pauses there, narrowing his eyes in thought.  “And thrilling.”

Listening to Sherlock speak, hearing him suddenly so forthcoming, Molly wonders if she’s actually passed out somewhere and this is one of those overly vivid dreams brought about by too much alcohol.  That’s probably it.  Sherlock would never use such imprecise, flowery language: really, he’s nearly waxing poetic.  Deciding this whole conversation is just a hallucination makes it easier for her to pretend she’s doing nothing wrong by sitting there and allowing him to tell her these wonderfully personal details.

“I love how he’s a just a little bit dangerous.  When he’s touching me… when he holds my head in his hands as he kisses me, I think about the damage he could inflict just by shifting his grip, pressing just that much harder:  my throat, my spine… my life in his hands.  I am aware of course that he’d never hurt me very badly, but I like to consider it hypothetically.  It’s not so hard to imagine.  He’s not always gentle and hesitant when he’s aroused, sometimes he’s really quite rough.  Sometimes he loses just a bit of control over his desire, when he _wants_ something enough, wants _me_ so intensely that he’ll just grab, _take,_ forgets to be cautious.  Pulls me roughly to him, biting my lip, biting my collarbone, gripping my body.

“I like it when he leaves marks.  Bites and bruises.  Evidence.”  There’s a full glass of brandy waiting by his elbow suddenly, and he reaches for it automatically, taking a long swallow and not even really feeling the burn that he knew ought to accompany it.  “Sometimes I’ll ask for him to mark me deliberately, if it’s been a while and the other marks have faded.  But I prefer the accidental ones.  Bruises on my hipbones, my thighs, his teeth imprinted on my shoulder.  Proof that he wants me, proof that I affect him.  How much he must be holding himself in check, the rest of the time, restraining himself to avoid just _breaking_ me.”

A moment of silence between them follows his last speech, and only then does Sherlock notice Molly’s strange expression—slightly dazed, he thinks, as if knocked over the head with a blunt instrument.  “I’m—I’m sorry, are you bored?”  The words leave his mouth haltingly, struggling against both the effects of the brandy and his natural reluctance to defer to another person’s interests in a conversation.  “You have been expe—espec— _exceptionally_ quiet.  Is this—entertaining you?”

Molly realizes she’s been holding her breath.  She lets it out, inhales again and goes to speak, but still feels light-headed, her face is too hot, and she trips on her words.  “I—um, that is,” she stops herself, laughing a little at the giddy sensation that somehow had managed to sneak up on her.  “Is it… is it a bit warm in here?” she asks, “I think I—I think I may need some water…”  She sees Sherlock start to open his mouth, but before he can speak ( _more of those impossibly erotic words,_ Molly thinks guiltily) she rises and (only a bit shakily) makes her way over to the ladies’ room to compose herself.

Her heart rate has slowed considerably and the flush has mostly left her face (she’s checked in the mirror above the sink) when she emerges a few minutes later, and she does stop at the bar for two glasses of water before returning to the table.  As she approaches she sees Sherlock leaning back in his chair, staring into the distance with a sort of dreamy, pensive expression and a brightness in his eyes, a dancing light in them.  The slight smile on his lips seems completely genuine and unselfconscious.  The last brandy glass is empty, and Molly is sure that part of his glow can be attributed to that fact.  But she sees something else in his face, in his thoughts just before he notices her and his smile stiffens a bit, his face closes off a bit, reflexively. 

She sets one glass of water in front of him and starts sipping the other, herself.  “So?” he asks, slightly slurring the word ever so slightly, and Molly wonders if she missed something. 

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Did I bore you?”  Sherlock’s voice is earnest, and his eyebrows are drawn together as if in concentration.

Molly is almost flattered by his uncharacteristic concern.  “No.  No, Sherlock, not at all.”  However, she can’t think of anything else remotely appropriate that she can offer on the subject of the entertainment value of his conversation.

“Good.”  He relaxes visibly and the slightly dreamy smile returns to his face.  “John will be pleased.”

Molly has no clue how the one fact follows from the other in Sherlock’s mind, but she does finally say the other thing she’s been thinking.  “You really love him, don’t you?”  There’s nothing plaintive or jealous in her voice—while having to confront John’s utter grief and desperation in the face of Sherlock’s disappearance, listening at times to his own drunken confessions, knowing what she knew, Molly had found her own romantic feelings for Sherlock considerably diminished.

“Love?”  Sherlock seems defensive now, drawing himself up in his chair, successfully crossing his arms over his chest after a bit of initial fumbling.  “I was talking about lust and car— _carnality_ , not sentiment.”

Molly manages to keep from laughing, but she can’t keep the amusement from her voice.  “Um. Of course.  Completely different things.  You should drink some water, you finished that last brandy quite quickly.”

He doesn’t know what he’s missing, but Sherlock senses that a joke is somehow being made at his expense and he slides down in the chair, beginning to sulk.  “Water?  Dull.”

So Molly drinks both glasses herself, and after a couple of minutes Sherlock finally gives in to temptation and starts sharing aloud (his mood rapidly improving) the deductions he’s made over the course of the night about the dozen or so people left in the pub.  Mostly they are unflattering deductions, and Sherlock isn’t even making an effort to be quiet, so in very short order they are politely but firmly asked to please pay their tab and leave.

Just as well, Molly thinks as they stand outside on the pavement, it’s already nearly two a.m..  She tries for about ten minutes (unsuccessfully) to hail a cab, and Sherlock is standing next to her wrapped in his coat and scarf, quiet again, apparently content to think to himself.  He’s so quiet that after a while, she nearly forgets he’s there and is startled when he finally speaks.  His voice is a low, halting rumble, as if he’s afraid of being overheard.  “Of course I realize there are connections.  Arousal response, chemical release, strengthening certain pathways in the brain.  Biological, psychological… connections.” 

Perhaps there is a clue in the tone of his voice; Molly follows his train of thought back almost effortlessly.  “Between lust and… love?” 

Sherlock thinks back to that moment just before he kissed John for the first time.  Remembers the feeling:  like standing on a precipice, breathless, looking down but unable to see the ground below.  Leaning in towards John, like leaning over the edge, leaning into the fall (another kind of fall)… there had been a sense of inevitability about it, despite his indecision and anxiety.  Like gravity, a force had been pulling him to John, irresistibly, inexorably; it had always been almost about to happen, until it had.  The kiss hadn’t been the beginning of everything between them, not really.  Not at all.  It had started in a hundred other, smaller places. 

He is, Sherlock realizes, completely incapable of explaining this revelation.  Not here, not to Molly:  maybe not at all.  He only vaguely understands, himself, the surge of excitement and sensation that overrides his conscious mind when he holds John, when they connect.  He cannot lay this out neatly.  Instead:  “John will be waiting up for me,” Sherlock says, smiling, and raises his arm for a cab. 

Molly smiles back, then laughs as a taxi stops in front of them almost immediately.  She watches how Sherlock’s smile has transformed his face.  “I’m glad,” she says, and thinks that covers pretty much all of it.

\----

At three a.m. Sherlock swoops into the flat, coat flapping dramatically, eyes sparkling with brandy and good will for all.

Unfortunately, his entrance is lost on John, who _had_ been waiting up for Sherlock, until he’d fallen asleep sitting on the sofa.

He’d been watching nothing on the telly and glancing at his phone every fifteen minutes, and wondering what it meant that it was hours after midnight and Sherlock had still not returned from what was supposed to have been a couple of friendly drinks with Molly.  He had decided it was either a good sign, and Sherlock had somehow managed to actually behave himself for an evening without John’s feedback (admittedly not the most likely possibility), or it was an exceedingly bad sign, and the mix of alcohol, a man back from the dead, and the girl who had helped him to “die” had somehow led to mayhem, injury, dismemberment and/or (actual) death.

Realizing that his imagination had most likely gotten the best of him, John had picked up his mobile time and again, only to force himself to put it down without texting or calling.  After all, he had reasoned, if anything had truly gone awry, he was fairly certain he would have had a phone call from Lestrade or possibly someone from the hospital.

He wakes up suddenly to find Sherlock clumsily straddling his lap, his hands on John’s shoulders, the back of his coat trailing down over John’s legs.  John’s head is tilted back on the sofa as he blearily opens his eyes to see Sherlock’s face looming above his, wearing an uncharacteristically giddy smile.  “Hello, John.”

John’s mind attempts to regroup after its abrupt return from sleep.  “Sherlock… what time is it?”

“Irrev—irrev— _irrelevant,_ John.”  Sherlock’s grin seems about to split his face.  Clearly, he’s had a few more drinks than he’s used to.

Still, any annoyance John may have been prepared to feel about being suddenly awakened in the small hours of the morning to a somewhat drunk consulting detective intruding in his personal space is rapidly dispelled as Sherlock leans down at an awkward angle and kisses him.  It’s a very nice kiss, John allows, as he closes his eyes again and moves his left hand up to further disrupt Sherlock’s already unruly hair.  For his part, Sherlock seems totally immersed as he moves his mouth over John’s, and John entertains the illusion that perhaps all of Sherlock’s ceaseless awareness is actually focused on their lips, on this one moment, as they breathe erratically around each other’s mouths.  John imagines that there is something different in the way Sherlock is kissing him, something less considered, more… more reverent, almost.  Despite the fact that this is obviously a delusion of his still sleepy mind, John’s pulse has started pounding in his ears in earnest by the time Sherlock pulls back and they can breathe properly for a minute.

A moment later, Sherlock collapses into John, his head seeking the crook of John’s shoulder, his face pressing into the stretch of John’s neck just below his ear.  Sherlock breathes in, then exhales contentedly.  It takes John another moment for his brain to come back online, but then he laughs, “Well, I suppose things went well with Molly, then—”

“Love you,” Sherlock murmurs fuzzily against his neck, and John goes still.  He’d said those words before of course, but never outside of sex, only ever in those final minutes of elevated passion and sensation.

“I—love you too,” John tells the dark mass of Sherlock’s curls, but the only response he gets is a hum of sleepy contentment as the ungainly tangle of limbs that is Sherlock tightens its hold upon him.  He should nudge him back awake and move them both to the bed, John considers, thinking of the sore backs and stiff limbs that are sure to follow a night on the sofa.  But his conviction is short-lived, as Sherlock’s warm presence and steady breaths have already started to lull John back to sleep, as well.  He leans his head against Sherlock’s, inhaling his familiar comforting smell, and closes his eyes.

\----

Somehow, the subject of Sherlock’s night out with Molly doesn’t really come up again, and it’s almost a week later that Sherlock drags John around to Bart’s, hoping to sneak a look at the newly arrived microscopes that had been ordered for the lab.

“You did say _look,_ Sherlock, and not _borrow,_ ” John is having trouble keeping up with him as they hurry down the corridors to the lab.

“John, they could hardly begrudge loaning me a _single_ microscope.  They probably wouldn’t even miss it; the record-keeping here is completely haphazard.  I’m sure mistakes are made on their shipping receipts every day.”

John is so busy considering how to avert disaster in the form of another unplanned trip in the back seat of a police car that he just barely avoids barreling into a walking pile of cardboard boxes with a lab coat peeking out beneath them.  He stops just in time and throws his hands up to stop the topmost boxes tumbling off the stack.  “Sorry, didn’t see you—”

The boxes (empty, fortunately) immediately fall en masse, revealing a rather anxious-looking Molly Hooper.  “Oh!  Oh, ah, hello, um, John.”  Sherlock had stopped at the sound of the boxes hitting the floor, and is now watching the action with an inscrutable expression.

As she leans down to retrieve the boxes, John bends over to help her.  She seems to be carefully avoiding looking at him.  Strange.  “Sorry about that, Molly.  Bit distracted, totally my fault.”

Molly glances up towards Sherlock, as if just becoming aware of his presence, then quickly averts her eyes to look at John, before finally looking down again at the boxes.  Not, however, before John notices a distinct blush creeping across her face.  “Um, thanks, John, that’s fine, you don’t have to… I mean, you and Sherlock should just go and… ah, just go and do whatever—whatever it is you have to do here.  Or not _here_ , not in the corridor, I’m sure you didn’t have—plans in the _corridor.”_  Her blush deepens as she continues stammering, still looking deliberately at the floor.  “I mean.  You’re probably headed to the lab together… or the morgue, or wherever, to—to—”  She has completely given up on the boxes at this point and has started wringing her hands.  For a moment, she freezes, then squeaks out something that sounds like “excuse me” and darts around the corner and out of sight.

John slowly gathers the scattered boxes and stacks them against the wall.  Then he straightens up and turns to regard Sherlock, who seems wary, like a deer ready to dart into the forest at the slightest noise.  “Sherlock, that was about last week, wasn’t—”

“Yes.”

“Ah.  Is there something I should—”

“No.”

John approaches, and Sherlock tenses momentarily, then relaxes as he sees that John isn’t about to punch him.  “Are you sure?  Because Molly seemed fairly upset just now.  I could try talking to her, but if you won’t tell me what happened, then…”

“John, it’s fine.  She’s fine.  She’s just—adjusting.  To our—relationship.” 

“Our relationship!?  What did you tell her that she didn’t already know about our relationship?”

Sherlock attempts a reassuring smile.  “Don’t worry, John.  We were just talking about—love and sentiment.”


End file.
